Easy like Sunday morning
Sunday morning.
Mmmm... that warm, fuzzy, extremely comfortable and content feeling you get as you are stirring, but still snoozing, to the sound of the birds chirping their happy “mornings” to each other. You allow thoughts to begin to flow. You sleepily plan what you might do on this fine day, what you might make for dinner: wonder whether you may have won the lottery last night...cue one eye open to check my email...Nope - sigh.
I generally look forward to Sundays. It the only day of the week that we don’t all have to get up and frantically get ready for either the school run or Saturday morning clubs. The morning where I ‘should’ be able enjoy a lay-in: where I should be able to awake at a reasonable hour having enjoyed a wonderful uninterrupted, (national guidelines) recommendation of 7-9 hours sleep. Where I creep into my children’s bedrooms to look at their angelic little dribbly faces: watch them as they peacefully snooze and pause to admire my creations with pride. Gaze at them for a couple of moments with those heart-shaped eyes (we parents only have when they are asleep!): before waking them with a gentle shake and a promise of fresh pancakes made with blueberries and love!
BANG- Reality check!
Sadly, once again, my perfect Sunday morning remains another fantasy of mine, and the truth is that of the familiar carnage that rudely awakens me yet again.
Number 4 is already in my bed with hubby and I. She is still exclusively breastfed and so upon her little squawks at around 6am this morning I carried her in from her crib to feed again and she remained next to me for the next hour as I attempted to superglue my eyes back together for another hours kip!
Number 3 suddenly screams at full volume that there is “No room” for her in our double bed. A polite and gentle reminder that everyone is still asleep (except for me) allows for a more acceptable loud whisper as she repeats her observations, proceeds to squeeze in-between us, stamping on my kidney from the outside and head-butting me on the way in. Good morning!
I go downstairs to fetch my cold drink from the fridge. A supermarket bought Starbucks latte. At almost £1.80 a pop, they are indeed too expensive to feed my need for morning caffeine, but a necessary tool to aid my eye-stinging exhaustion. My husband lovingly buys them in bulk for me these days and they have become a staple in my mum diet. At the same time I score myself some brownie points by unloading the washing that I put on over night, sort into a pile for the tumble dryer and a pile for the washing line. (I’ll hang that up when I’ve put a bra on).
I go back upstairs to find number 2 has awoken, joined the other two and stolen MY spot in the bed, and so there are now 3 children and my husband occupying the headboard end. I crawl onto the bottom of the bed with zero pillows for comfort, in an attempt to ‘rest’ for a few more minutes.
Number 1 bursts out of her bedroom door having dressed herself in a crop top and tracksuit bottoms. Not our usual Sunday attire. I soon learn that she has in fact dressed for her early morning contortion workshop, which she delivers right in front of me on the landing. With continuous demands to “look at me mummy”, I watch with half a smile on my face, nodding with agreement and applause. I’m constantly reminded to “look again” as she attempts to break her back to get her legs over her head (something she’s seen on YouTube no doubt). I’m trying desperately to keep one eye on her and another on my phone to read the World news (a.k.a mooch around on Facebook).
Number 3 clearly dislikes me focusing all my attention on the gymnastics show and so decides that I should look at her too. She narrowly misses a kick in the face as Number 1’s legs fly in the air yet again and she heads for her room. She tells Alexa to play a song and as she dances her little socks off in her pajamas there is now a steady chorus of “look at me’s” coming from the same direction and now I have two ‘shows’ to applaud... enthusiastically! This of course results in a squabble about who is the best at performing. In an attempt to refocus my attention on her, Number 3 changes the song on Alexa. And tells her “volume 10”. The previous song choice I could cope with.... Baby Shark I cannot! So I leave them to it and resign to the shower for some peace. So much for my rest! Did I mention the husband is still asleep through all of this?
I had locked the door to my en suit in protest; something I do not often do. As I enjoyed the 2 minute break under the hot water I was somewhat surprised to see, (or should I say hear) Number 1 screaming at the top of her voice whilst tying to climb on the toilet cistern to look in the bathroom mirror. I practically fall out of the shower - glamorous, to see blood in her mouth. It turns out the squabbles turned physical and during the play-fight the 3 year old managed to knock out the 6 years old’s wobbly tooth!. I’m relieved it’s just the tooth and get back in the shower, leaving the discipline dishing to the husband, who was eventually awoken by the dramatic bellows. Morning!
It doesn’t take me long to figure out that it was him that let her into my bathroom with the penny trick on the outside of the lock. So much for my peace - sigh again.
The kids want breakfast. I have no patience for pancakes. Number 2, closely followed by number 3 comes back looking rather pleased with themselves having disappeared downstairs for a few minutes. In her hands she grips a multi-pack of Fruit-tella chews. She cleverly points out (whilst demonstrating her reading ability) that it does indeed say FRUIT on the packet and so is most definitely a healthy option for breakfast. The husband and I find this hilarious (and somewhat smart)...the girls chuckle along with us in the hope that we shall reward them with the sweets...the answer is still no!
Number 1 also disappears but comes back with my basket of clothes pegs she has collected from the garden. Before I know it, she has slung every item from the bunk beds onto the landing floor and built a ‘den’; carefully arranging multiple cushions, pillows, 2 quilts and a mountain of stuffed animals. She proceeds to peg blankets from the banister to the bathroom door; my bedroom door to the chest of drawers and before you know it, I am trapped in my own room. I watch her as she stands back, has a think and then makes a few minor adjustments. Party pooper over here (that’s me) has to ask her politely to remove the blankets so I can leave. Cue mild tantrum followed by those gorgeous, guilt-tripping ‘puppy eyes’ as she explains how long it’s taken her to perfect and that I would simply ruin it if she were to implement my request. I actually admire her work and it did take her some time to achieve, and so I allow her to keep it assembled. The only way to get downstairs is to literally crawl through the den on all fours (well three’s) whilst carrying empty water bottles under one arm and using the other to negotiate the maze and keep my balance.
Its now 9.30 am. I need to start breakfast. But first I’ll hang out that wet washing that’s been on the kitchen floor for over an hour. Out into the garden I carry the pile of washing to a chair. Some bits are already hung over the line. Where on earth are my pegs?
....oh...that’s it...holding up the den!